


Whisper Words Forbidden

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Banter, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Post-Seine, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22945954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: A portrait of a conversation had at night.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 9
Kudos: 124
Collections: Valvert Leap Day Exchange 2k20





	Whisper Words Forbidden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tfwlawyers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfwlawyers/gifts).



> I went with your prompt for pillow talk, but as usual the boys didn't cooperate and wandered off to do their own thing. I hope you'll still enjoy it, I tried to keep it pretty lighthearted. Happy belated Valvertentines Day! ;) <3
> 
> Edit: Many thanks to trufield for the beta read, and getting me unstuck. Always really appreciate your advice!

“I know you are awake.”

Valjean murmured the words softly in Javert’s ear, muddled by the grogginess of sleep. They were tangled up in one another, Valjean’s knee between Javert’s thighs and the man’s back pulled flush against him, which was how Valjean first came to notice the deception; the man’s breathing was too carefully measured, his shoulders a little too tight for one slumbering peacefully. 

The light of the moon snuck through the cracks in the shutters, throwing shadows across the pillow. Amongst those bars of light and dark, Javert’s hair lay loose and tangled on the bed. Valjean ached to run his fingers through it, to smooth the knots left by their earlier lovemaking, but he did not, not yet. Instead he waited for a hum, a grunt, some sign of acknowledgement that Javert had heard. When none was forthcoming, he sighed into the policeman’s neck, clutching him closer and gently stroking his bare chest. 

Eventually, Javert muttered, “I did not mean to wake you.”

“The wind woke me,” Valjean replied. “I think it will rain tomorrow.”

“Hmm.”

They rested in silence for some time, Valjean continuing to run his fingers absently over Javert’s skin. His nights had never been so content as they were in this place, this bed, the man in his arms warming his body and his heart in equal measure. Full of tender emotion, he pressed his lips to the back of Javert’s neck. 

Now Javert did grunt, a small dissatisfied noise. “No need for that,” he grumbled.

Propping himself up on his elbow, Valjean pecked him again on the shoulder. “Whyever not?”

The Inspector did not turn to look at him as he said, “You do not need to coddle me. I am not a child.”

Valjean snorted, lying back beside him. “A blind man could see you are no child,” he replied. “Is it so wrong that I should wish to kiss you?” When Javert did not respond, he added, “Were you dreaming again?”

Listlessly, Javert answered, “You are the one with the dreams.”

“Tch.” Valjean snuggled closer to him. “Always determined to be stubborn.”

“Always the sentimental old man,” Javert returned, but the words were softened by a grudging affection, the intimation that he too had in some unlikely way grown sentimental himself.

After that, the only sound was the music made by a quiet house—the tin rattle of the eaves in the wind, the percussive groan and creak of the timbers settling, the quiet rasp of the sheets. Valjean felt himself lulled once more into sleep’s embrace, his eyelids growing heavier as he basked in the familiar glow of Javert’s presence. Yet before he could drift off entirely, Javert shifted, the mattress dipping and bowing as the man disentangled himself enough to roll over. 

Then Valjean found himself looking at the shadowed contours of Javert’s face, at his dark eyes and the shape of his mouth pursed as with a question. 

“What troubles you?” Valjean asked, brushing aside a loose strand of hair from the Inspector’s cheek.

Javert’s brow bunched, a crease forming above his nose. He did not answer, but leaned forward, bringing their lips together. It was not the hasty, unchaste kiss it had been earlier that evening, nor was it the languorous, searching thing it had later become. This was uncertain, cautious, an admission of tenderness from one to whom such sentiment was a foreign language. Valjean hummed as their noses bumped, words insufficient to describe the feeling in his breast. 

“That was unexpected,” he murmured when Javert broke off.

The Inspector was still regarding him with the same odd look on his face. Reaching under the covers, Javert curved his hand over Valjean’s thigh, letting the warm weight of his palm hold him but lightly. The intensity in his gaze was an old one, albeit one tempered by their months of shared intimacy. Yet there were some things about Javert which never changed; the obstinate jut of his chin, the unreadable sink of his eyes, the pout of his lips when he was thinking especially hard about something.

“Are you happy?” Javert blurted finally.

Valjean blinked in surprise. “Of course I am,” he replied, putting a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. 

The Inspector did not look convinced, still frowning, and gradually Valjean’s countenance took on a more serious cast.

Softly, he asked, “Why should you think I am not?” 

Javert’s breath rushed out of him in a sigh. “I am hardly satisfactory,” he said. “And you deserve better than that. Yet by your behavior, one would think you do not even know what you have compromised.”

Rubbing circles into the man’s back with his thumb, Valjean looked him in the eye and said, “Who says that I am compromising anything?”

Javert scoffed. “Who would not?” he muttered. “I know my uses, Jean, and they are few. The truth is that I am a selfish man—I take more than I give, and you will forever insist on giving too much. I haunt your house like a specter, a shadow, never giving you a moment’s rest -”

“Javert.” 

The single word cut through the Inspector’s mounting tirade with all the gentle sharpness of a gardener plucking a shriveled flowerhead. Valjean laid his hand flat against Javert’s chest, feeling its rise and fall, the fretful tattoo of his pulse. 

“Now then,” Valjean said quietly, nestling his head against the man’s shoulder. “What you have given me—your affection, your... companionship—” He felt his ears heat as he continued, “I could not possibly want for anything more than that. I can scarcely even fathom it.”

“Perhaps you are incapable of wanting.”

“Am I?” Nudging him playfully with his hip, Valjean added, “I thought I had made it rather clear what I wanted.”

“Incorrigible,” Javert said into his pillow.

“Completely,” agreed Valjean. Sobering again, he said, “Truly, Javert, you have made me the happiest man I have been in my entire life. No gift could be greater.”

The corner of his mouth quirking upwards, Javert said, “Now you are just flattering me.”

“I have said nothing that wasn’t true,” Valjean protested. Shameless in the face of Javert’s insecurity, he molded himself to the Inspector’s figure, attempting to convey all his saccharine emotion by the congress of skin upon skin.

Javert was all limbs, lean muscle on a narrow frame that seemed to be held ever taut, like a bowstring drawn back by an archer’s hand. Yet there was a softness to the man’s belly that had not been there last June; Valjean did not like to think on that time for long, except as a point of contrast. By God’s grace, they had come through the darkness together and landed here. No language could ever suffice to speak the depth of his gratitude. He would simply have to hold Javert close, and pray that would do his talking for him.

Bit by bit, the lingering tension drained from the Inspector’s shoulders. Sighing again, he leaned his chin against Valjean’s hair, and Valjean laid his palm gently over the man’s heart. Outside, a light pattering of rain began to fall, tinkling against the roof and the rear of the house. Gradually the smell of wet earth and fresh air permeated the room. It was peaceful, the kind of peace that sat deep in the bones and made its home there. In that moment, nothing existed but for their little bedchamber and the flutter of breath upon Valjean’s forehead.

When so much time had passed that Valjean was once more beginning to doze, a hand crept up to lay on top of his own as Javert laced their fingers together.

“You have also made me happy,” he said quietly. “I think I do not tell you how much.” He brushed his lips over the part of Valjean’s curls, and murmured something unintelligible.

Smiling into the man’s shoulder, Valjean tightened his grip on Javert’s hand. Perhaps there were other words that Javert would whisper, words he could not bring himself to say in the light of day, but Valjean did not need to hear them to know their meaning. For there was more than one way to speak of love, just as there was more than one way of showing it. 

The last thing Valjean felt before drifting off for the night was the gentle pressure of Javert squeezing his hand in return; it seemed to him a perfectly eloquent reply, indeed.


End file.
